


Something Something Drunken Words, Something Something Sober Truths

by Scrawlers



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 01:01:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17033336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrawlers/pseuds/Scrawlers
Summary: Keith has a little too much to drink at a party, and Lotor carries him back to his room. On the way there, Keith says something that Lotor is sure means nothing.





	Something Something Drunken Words, Something Something Sober Truths

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this seven months ago, but in light of Tumblr being . . . Tumblr, I've decided to archive everything here, just in case.

Keith is a lightweight.

It’s amusing—endearing, really, to see how  _quickly_ alcohol takes him, how very little it takes to get him tipsy, and then intoxicated. The best part of it, Lotor thinks, is how it isn’t readily apparent at first, either to Keith himself or to those around him. Keith can carry on a conversation just fine while drunk, save for the random bursts of giggling as he makes himself laugh over an accidental rhyme or repeated turn of phrase, and he has no problem following the flow of conversation either. As a result, neither he nor others recognize when he has slipped past the sobriety line, and that lack of recognition means that no one—not Keith himself, and not those around him—think to say a word to suggest he so much as slow down with his drinking, much less stop altogether. It isn’t until Keith tries to stand that the effect of his alcohol consumption truly makes itself known, for when he tries to stay, he sways; and though he manages to stand upright, the moment where he blinks, utterly flummoxed, because he hadn’t expected his equilibrium to be so affected is nothing short of entertaining. 

All the same, Keith  _does_ remain on his feet, and for the most part he can still walk in a straight line, with only minimal stumbling here or there. He never falls, and his good humor remains in place. In many ways, Inebriated Keith is more open than Sober Keith. It isn’t that his lips have become loose, or that he has suddenly become fond of baring his soul to the universe. Rather, it is that  _he_ has loosened up, that he has relaxed at least a few fractions, that he is allowing himself to have fun if only for a little while.

It’s nice, Lotor thinks, to see him smile like that.

But all nights meet their end, and nights when they’ve allowed themselves to have a few (or perhaps more than a few) drinks come to pass. The happy buzz that kept Keith laughing throughout the night fades into peaceful (at least for the moment) drowsiness, and though Keith isn’t  _quite_ asleep as he curls up in his chair at the table, he’s close enough to it (his knees pulled up to his chest and his chin upon them, his eyes closed) that Lotor feels that he probably isn’t up to a trek back to his room. So although he does give Keith’s shoulder one little shake to alert him, he waits no longer than to give Keith a chance to mumble “mmmwhat?” before he scoops one arm under Keith’s knees, and wraps the other around his shoulders to lift him into an easy carry.

 _That_ causes Keith’s eyes to flutter open, blinking blearily as he tries to make sense of the fact that one moment ago he was seated on a chair, and now he is cradled in Lotor’s arms. “Hey, wha—?”

“I thought this would be easiest,” Lotor says, and he smiles when Keith’s eyes meet his own. “You seem to be done for the night, so I thought I’d help you to your room.” 

“Oh.” Keith blinks, drowsiness and alcohol no doubt conspiring to make him process the situation a little slower than he would ordinarily, before he says, “I can walk.”

“I’m sure,” Lotor says, but makes no move to set Keith back on unsteady feet. Instead, he looks back to the rest gathered in the room, and nods to them. “This party was most entertaining. Excuse us.” 

There are a few murmured assents from the rest of those gathered, as well as one or two suggestive, unnecessary comments, but Lotor ignores all of them as he strides from the room. Keith remains awake for all of about, oh, five ticks; his head has come to settle against Lotor’s shoulder, his breathing soft and even, and Lotor smiles as he carries him down the corridors. Keith is such a  _lightweight_ ; it must have been his human genes. There was no other reasonable explanation Lotor could think of for why it took hardly two glasses of drink for the alcohol to hit him the way it did.

The gathering hadn’t been held  _too_ far from Keith’s quarters, but it was far enough that the sounds of the party faded entirely as Lotor made the trek. The corridors were utterly silent save for the sound of his footsteps, and Keith’s soft breathing. It was nice—peaceful, broken by nothing unexpected. There were no disturbances, no sounds, no—

“. . . love you.”

Lotor stops, just as his heart does, right there in the middle of the corridor. It’s a result of the way his muscles seize that he holds Keith a little more tightly against his chest as he looksdown at him, eyes wide. “Come again?”

Keith is still asleep—or at least, he appears that way with the way his eyes are closed, his face turned so that it’s half-pressed against Lotor’s chest. He inhales slowly—deeply. And just when Lotor thinks that perhaps he imagined Keith saying anything at all, Keith says, “I love you.”

It isn’t that Lotor’s heart has stopped. It is that Lotor’s heart has ceased to exist. He stares at Keith; he feels unable to process what is happening, what  _has_ happened, with the way his heart no longer exists to make sure an adequate amount of blood makes its way to his brain. He opens his mouth to respond, but no sound makes it up his throat. He closes his mouth, swallows, and then tries again.

“Are you dreaming?” he asks.

In answer, Keith presses his face more tightly against Lotor’s chest. Once again, it seems as though he will not answer. And once again, he finally mumbles, “Mmmno. S’just nice, is all.”

That hardly makes sense, but then, very little of this does. He takes a breath, and that helps. It allows his heart to begin pumping again, at least. That is a start. He resumes walking down the corridor again, and after organizing his thoughts enough to remember which paths he has to take to reach Keith’s quarters, he manages to say, “You’re drunk, Keith.”

Keith says nothing. Lotor is likely imagining it, but it feels as if Keith has shifted just so, just enough so that his shoulder is pressed more tightly against Lotor’s arm.

They reach Keith’s quarters without incident. Lotor is able to shift his hold on Keith just enough to get the door open, and when he enters the room, he deposits Keith on his bed without much trouble. The moment Keith is on his mattress, he rolls over onto his stomach, his face pressed against his pillow. Lotor allows himself a moment to smile. For once, Keith seems ready to sleep fully—to sleep  _deeply_. It’s the sort of rest he deserves, and the sort that Lotor himself can’t ever remember having. Perhaps Keith will be able to sleep deeply enough for the both of them, at least this one night.

He turns to leave, but as he reaches the door he hears Keith speak up from behind him, his face half-muffled by pillow. “G’night, Lotor. Thanks for the lift.”

Lotor smiles, though he does not look back. “You’re quite welcome, Keith. Pleasant dreams.”

Once more, Keith says nothing. His breathing is soft and even, and Lotor clicks off the light before he exits the room.

Alone in the hallway, he pauses. There is no one around—no sound, now, save for the faint, ever-present humming of the quintessence flowing the floor, walls, and lights. But although all is quiet, there is an echo in Lotor’s ears that won’t quite leave it.

_‘. . . love you. I love you.’_

Lotor closes his eyes, and takes another shaking breath. He places his hand over his chest, and feels his heart beating in a staccato rhythm. 

Words spoken while inebriated did not carry much weight. In fact, they carried none. As entertaining as it had been to see Keith intoxicated, it was important to recognize that Inebriated Keith said and did things that Sober Keith never would. Lotor does recognize that fact. He knows that any words spoken by Keith in his intoxicated state held no meaning. They were simply that: words. Words mumbled in the spur of the moment, words inspired by intoxication. Words that will absolutely be forgotten by the morning, never to cross Keith’s mind again.

Lotor swallows, and closes his fingers in a fist over his uneven heartbeat for only a moment before he forces himself to start down the hall to his own quarters.

It didn’t mean anything. It  _doesn’t_ mean anything. It  _will not_ mean anything come morning, when Keith has long since forgotten. Lotor knows this, as much as he knows any other logical fact. He  _knows_ that what Keith said did not, does not, and will not ever mean anything.

_‘I love you.’_

His heart gives another staccato pulse, and he takes another deep breath through his nose in a futile attempt to calm it.

Lotor  _knows_ that it was— _is_ —meaningless.

But how he  _feels_  . . . well,  _that_ is a different matter altogether.


End file.
